


You Can’t Keep a Tart Waiting. Or, in which Cornelius Hickey is a devious pâtissier.

by Derry Rain (smakibbfb)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Pie puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27596105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smakibbfb/pseuds/Derry%20Rain
Summary: Prompt:Hickey/Le Vesconte in which they are  competing on The Great British Bake-off and Hickey sleeps with Dundy to steal his recipes.If someone gives you this prompt, you aren't not going to do it, right?
Relationships: Henry T. D. Le Vesconte/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13
Collections: Hickeyshipping 2020





	You Can’t Keep a Tart Waiting. Or, in which Cornelius Hickey is a devious pâtissier.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsKingBean89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsKingBean89/gifts).



“Oh you _little fu-_ ”

“And how are you getting on today, Mr Hickey?”

_-cker._

Hickey straightens rapidly, and plasters on what he’s pretty sure is his most appealing, camera-ready smile. James Fitzjames, returns it in a vague, pleasant fashion, clasping his hands behind his back. Next to him, Francis Crozier is frowning, and poking a finger at a bowl of what is supposed to eventually be the jelly centrepiece of his showstopper.

“You’re going to do it like that, are you?” Crozier says, eyebrow raised. “You’ll have a hard time getting it set.”

Hickey beams through gritted teeth. “It’s an old family recipe,” he lies easily, “it’ll all turn out right in the end.”

“I hope for your sake it does,” Crozier says, and the two judges move off down the benches, towards Edward Little, who to be fair, does not seem to be having any better a time of it than Hickey is, judging by the bright green food colouring which is right now insistently traveling down his arm, his leg and several of the carpet tiles around his feet. Fitzjames delicately steps around the mess, and Edward looks up at him with a look of abject despair.

 _Thank God for that poor fuck,_ Hickey thinks to himself, and turns his attention back to the jelly that absolutely isn’t going to set any time soon. He puts his hands on his hips. 

“Time for a change of plan,” he says to nobody in particular.

It’s no surprise when Edward Little gets booted from the competition that week. The macarons had been a disaster, the religieuse had looked more like a sacrilège and there had been an excruciating full thirty seconds in which Crozier had stared him dead in the eye whilst raw pastry dough covered in watery icing had dangled like some long-dead sea creature from his fork. Hickey had almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.

However, he’s far too busy seething at the choice of star baker. For the second week in a row, and the third time this competition, he has to stand back and watch as Henry - “Two Henrys? It’s a good thing most people call me Dundy!” - Le Vesconte preened in the spotlight again, clasping Fitzjames’ hand in both of his. Careful to smile for the cameras, to embrace Le Vesconte like the gracious loser he absolutely wasn’t, Hickey knew that whatever else happened this competition, there was only one goal now.

He was going to beat Henry Dundas Thomas Le Vesconte if it was going to kill him.

It is in the pub later, as the group of them commiserate Edward’s loss over a pint and a slightly pointed purchase of a sharing platter of pastry-based goods which he takes with resigned good grace and a punch to Tozer’s shoulder, that Hickey really starts to think about his plan. He casts an appraising eye around the table, barely touching the pint that an already pink-cheeked John Irving had placed in front of him. This wasn't just a competition. This was _Bake Off_ and he was going to have to be very, very careful indeed.

Le Vesconte was, of course, the biggest problem. There appeared to be about nothing that the man didn't know about baking, and most especially about the cakes and biscuits that so often formed vital components of their showstopping bakes. Irritatingly, he also seemed to excel at following instruction; in the three weeks of the competition so far, he had not come lower than second in the technical. It was not that Hickey hated him. He was a rather affable sort of man, he’d discovered early on, but oh _God_ , did he want to knock to shake the smugness out of him like he’s flouring a cake tin.

The others are less of an immediate issue, he decides. He’s had a few weeks to marinate on their strengths and weaknesses now, and right now, he’s fairly sure that he’s got a decent enough read on most of them to take a less directly combative approach.

There was George Hodgson, he was an incredibly skilled technical baker, who, Hickey knew from the leftovers that the group of them sometimes shared after the events, could do near-miraculous things with bread. Not as willing to be as adventurous as some of the others, he was a decent contender. A few accidentally mislabelled ingredients, that would be enough for him.

Silna was harder to judge. She had been the first person to receive the Nod, as Crozier passed quiet, pleased judgement over the spiced biscuits she had produced that first week. But she had looked decidedly out of her comfort zone whenever the cameras were near. He could press on that, he thought. It mightn’t be too hard to make her lose her cool on screen.

Goodsir, he wasn’t quite sure of. The man had made good stabs at the technicals, and had a handful of almost, but not quite, top scoring signature bakes. The man’s softly companionable demeanour didn’t seem to do him any harm with the judges either. There had been a moment though, after they had finished filming this week, when Goodsir had stopped him on the way out of the tent, placing one, gentle and firm hand on his arm. 

“Le Vesconte’s an excellent baker,” he had said, “I think he’s really earned this.”

His eyes had met Hickey’s then, and there had been a note of wariness in them. Hickey had just grinned, and filed the information away for later. “Hasn’t he just,” he had replied, and lit a cigarette as soon as they were a few paces from the door. Goodsir had just nodded, and hurried to catch up with Silna. 

Across the bar, John Irving had his arm around Edward, squeezing him into an awkward half-hug. If the tent had had a Guardian Angel, Hickey thought, it would be Irving. Almost always finished ahead of time - though, sometimes more to do with the simplicity of his bakes than any supernatural baking skill - he would hover around until somebody else took pity on him and let him help them with something, let him tidy something away, let him think that _he_ was taking pity on _them_ . They were joined after a few moments by the broad frame of Solomon Tozer. Tozer, Hickey was _absolutely certain_ was going to be absolutely beloved by the British public, and if he hadn’t already been dedicating himself to unpicking Le Vesconte, he would have made a beeline towards the man so direct that it would have caused a crow to blush. The bluff former marine had a direct way of speaking and a direct way of baking, and yet had created some of the most beautifully delicate fondant flowers that Hickey had ever seen. Those giant’s hands were far more skilled than they seemed at first sight and he had full intentions on finding out quite how skilled they could be. Later. Right now, there were other, more important plans to set in motion.

Le Vesconte is in the pub too, of course, standing in the corner chatting away on his mobile. His face is split in a wide, infuriatingly toothy smile as he speaks to someone on whom the expansive hand gestures he’s making are absolutely wasted. _Something something, I’m so great_ ; Hickey sighs. At least Le Vesconte is good-looking. That would make this whole next part easier.

As if he hadn’t noticed Le Vesconte at all, Hickey slides from his chair and sidles closer to the other man, leaning insouciantly against the bar nearby. Le Vesconte clicks off the phone and slips it neatly into the pocket of his black leather jacket.

“Your adoring fans?” Hickey asks. Le Vesconte laughs.

“My mother,” he says, “so yes.”

Hickey chuckles, carefully and winningly, and steps in closer; Le Vesconte does not move away. “What can I get you, mate? Celebrate your win and all.”

“A fluke,” Le Vesconte says humbly, though Hickey can’t help but note the lack of deferent modesty in his voice. He calls the bartender over, and waves his hand when Dundy opens his wallet to pay.

“I told you, it’s on me.” He grins. “We should make this a tradition. Star baker doesn’t buy the drinks. You’ll save a fortune.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Le Vesconte says. His eyes are looking over Hickey with a curious interest.

Hickey smiles. Perhaps this will be easier than he thought.

They are barely through Le Vesconte’s door when Hickey finds himself pressed up against the wall and thoroughly kissed. Le Vesconte’s mouth is hot, urgent, and he wraps his large hands tightly around Hickey’s forearms as he moves down from his lips, across his jaw, and buries himself in the curve of his neck. He’s more jagged here, far less put together, and if it _absolutely and completely_ doesn’t bother Hickey at all, it still surprises him a little. Le Vesconte had been the model of a charming bachelor while they had still been in the pub, all dark eyes from under lowered lashes and a gentle thumb running over the veins of Hickey’s slender wrist. Hickey shifts a little, grips Le Vesconte’s waist with one hand, and with the other, starts to run his fingers under where his shirt is still tucked into his waistband. Experimentally, he lets his nails rake a little over Le Vesconte’s skin where he pushes underneath the fabric, and in return, Le Vesconte growls low into the soft skin below his ear. Hickey does smile then, and does it again.

“Let’s get upstairs, hm,” Hickey says, pushing up against Le Vesconte. He can feel the man’s cock already growing hard beneath his jeans from this teenage display and helets him wriggle out from his position, and start leading them both towards the stairs. Le Vesconte places his hand in the small of Hickey’s back and when the steps open out into an immaculate bedroom, he pushes insistently towards the bed.

“Been a while, has it?” Hickey asks. Le Vesconte huffs behind him and doesn’t respond. He stops touching Hickey though, and he turns, a question on his lips. Le Vesconte has stepped back slightly, the hand that had been propelling Hickey forwards hanging slightly awkwardly in the air.

“You _are_ all right with this, aren’t you?” He asks. Hickey raises an eyebrow.

“Are you?”

There is silence for a moment, but Hickey is good at waiting. He watches Le Vesconte’s eyes, as they rake up and down his body, pupils already blown and dark with arousal. 

“I don’t do this often,” he says eventually. Hickey takes pity on the slight desperation in his tone and smiles back at him.

“It’s all right, I am particularly appealing,” he replies, and Le Vesconte laughs. Something of the tension in the air seems to dissipate around them and he continues. “Listen, mate, this is all good with me, but if you don’t want to do this, we can call it quits now, no harm, no foul, no bad feelings and no tv cameras the wiser.” He means it. Many people may have said many things about him in the past - his ex, Billy had _several_ choice phrases for him after they had broken up - but he will not press an interest where there is none. And so he lets Le Vesconte take the lead, to take Hickey by the wrist again and push him down to the bed, so that he is seated on it with the other man standing above him. 

“I want this too,” Le Vesconte assures him, and kisses him again.

His fingers tangle in the bottom of Hickey’s t-shirt and he pulls it up over his head. His fingers graze over Hickey’s ribs and he laughs a little.

“I am sure I remember a saying about _skinny chefs_ ,” he murmurs. 

Hickey pinches him. 

His own hands are busily working to divest Le Vesconte of his button down shirt, and he lets it fall to the floor by his own. Le Vesconte, he notices, can’t help but kick it slightly in the direction of a laundry basket that appears to bear some kind of designer logo emblazoned on the front, because of course it does. He runs his hands down the back of Le Vesconte’s jeans, over the curve of his ass, squeezing against the muscles there, against the back of his thighs. He mouths over Le Vesconte’s belly, his hip, and deftly begins to undo his jeans. As he slips to his knees, he tugs the jeans free, and places biting kisses along the waistband of his underwear.

Le Vesconte’s hands rest on Hickey’s shoulders, not pressing, not yet, but Hickey feels slightly giddy in the anticipation of it. He noses along the line of Le Vesconte’s groin as he frees his cock; Le Vesconte’s hands move up, up his neck, tangling in Hickey’s hair and as Hickey takes him in his mouth, they pull, deliciously tight. All of the earlier hesitation seems suddenly lost, Hickey finds that it is Le Vesconte, whether he is aware of it or not, who is setting the pace. His hips are straining not to buck beneath Hickey’s ministrations, but nonetheless, he’s moving against Hickey, fucking forwards into his mouth just shy of too much. A part of Hickey, a part he has come to know so intimately, feels absolutely certain he could take Le Vesconte apart if he wanted to, but perhaps there is time enough for that.

When Le Vesconte’s breathing starts to become ragged, when his movements start to stutter slightly, Hickey takes control again, and glances up to watch Le Vesconte’s face. He barks a warning that Hickey chooses to ignore, and comes with a loud and very unrefined sentiment on his lips.

Hickey swallows, rocks back on his heels. Le Vesconte is looking down at him now, and leans to drag him back up, manhandle him onto the bed, where he kisses the taste of himself out of Hickey’s mouth. He presses himself down into Hickey’s still entirely too clothed lower half, and Hickey catches his chin, pulls away for a moment.

“You’re not done yet, chef” he says and grins.

"If you are about to make a joke about soggy bottoms," Le Vesconte says, as he starts to unbuckle Hickey's belt. "Don't."

Hickey wakes in an unfamiliar bed, with an extraordinarily familiar smell of pancakes wafting up the stairs. He stretches, cat-like against the incredibly fine-quality sheets and stays where he is for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling. His fingers curl in the fabric around him. He’s slightly achey in the most delicious way and for a few minutes, he just lets himself revel in it. 

The scent of coffee hits him as he breathes deep and with another stretched out yawn, he rolls over to sit on the edge of his bed. His clothes are strewn about the floor; he doesn’t rush as he puts them together. He pauses as he picks up his t-shirt, then drops it again, instead pulling one out of the nearby chest of drawers. It’s slightly too big on him, hangs on his small frame just long enough that he doesn’t feel the need to put his jeans on quite yet. He lingers in the room for a moment, fingers itching to run over every surface, poke around in every dresser. But there’s just one item that he needs to find, and, on top of a stack of papers on the small desk in the corner, he does just that. A large notebook, stuffed full of notes and clippings, recipes and plans for the upcoming weeks. He flips a few pages and takes out his phone to snap some photos. He was right. It had been almost too easy.

“Are you awake?” Le Vesconte’s voice calls up the stairs. Hickey doesn’t answer, but closes the book again and drops his phone back in his pocket.

He stares at himself in the large mirror and runs a hand through his hair, smoothing out last night’s endeavours into something slightly more respectable. There’s a large, reddened patch of skin where his neck meets his body and he smirks at it, tugs the shirt until the neck doesn’t quite cover it at all. Humming to himself in satisfaction, he turns and pads down the stairs.

Le Vesconte is in his kitchen; there’s a fancy looking machine bubbling something coffee-related away, and a growing stack of American-style pancakes on a pristine black and chrome countertop. Hickey saunters over to the coffee and pours himself a large mug. The mug, he notices, has a photo of a large spotted cat on it, and the incongruous tweeness gives him pause for a moment.

“Don’t you have an off switch,” he asks, not unkindly. Le Vesconte smiles. Hickey, victoriously, does not miss as Le Vesconte’s eyes rove over his body, before coming to rest at the curve of his half-hidden collarbone.

“It’s all practice,” he says, with a slight hitch of his breath, and slides another pancake onto the plate. “There are weeks to go yet.”

Hickey barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, but allows Le Vesconte to show him to the breakfast nook - _he has a breakfast nook_ \- and hand over a fork and a bottle of maple syrup. From _Waitrose_. Until now, Hickey has never considered himself a particularly awful morning-after host, but he’s beginning to think that he might need to raise his game. There has to be a trick here he’s missing.

“Enjoy,” says Le Vesconte, in the tone of a man who knows exactly what he’s done.

Hickey is already on his second pancake.

The next week, it’s Tozer’s turn to be Star Baker and a deeply distressed George Hodgson leaves the tent. Hickey watches from afar as he tearfully recounts how proud he’s been to make it this far, blah, blah, _family_ , blah, _I can say I’m a proper baker,_ gross. It’s all very obvious stuff, the kind of wholesome nonsense that could easily make a man’s stomach turn. The melodrama is relatively entertaining though, and he stands there, picking pieces off of one Goodsir’s custard tarts, and watching, until he feels a presence of another person coming to stand directly behind him.

“Dundy,” he greets cheerfully, but quietly enough that the microphones won’t pick them up. He’s taken slightly off guard as his arm is grabbed and he’s dragged around the corner.

“What-”

“You did that on purpose!” Le Vesconte says, eyes flashing. There are little spots of red on his cheeks and Hickey can’t help but find that a little bit attractive. He blinks, and pretends that he doesn’t know exactly what Le Vesconte is talking about.

“Did what?”

“Copied my bake!”

Hickey edges them further around the corner, away from where anyone can hear them. He leans back against the wall, tilts his head up as if Le Vesconte is crowding him, boxing him in with the way he towers about him. His hands are already curling up to pat gently against Le Vesconte’s chest in a soothing motion.

“Come on, mate, you know we have to submit bakes in advance. This was just coincidence.” He strokes a finger against Le Vesconte’s clenched jaw. “Great minds and all that. Besides, they didn’t like mine nearly as much as they liked yours.”

It’s a little white lie, sprinkled over the top of a last minute pastry tourist attraction of a lie. Crozier and Fitzjames had not bothered hiding their surprise when Hickey had produced a flamboyant showstopper, nor their slight consternation when Le Vesconte had turned up with something slightly similar. Judging by the burned edges of Le Vesconte’s own _Pie-ffel Tower_ \- Hickey had gone with the somewhat more forgiving _Leaning Tower of Pie-sa_ \- the other baker had noticed the similarities sometime during the baking process and it had thrown him off his game hard. After Tozer’s majestic _Chick’n’Ham Palace_ had been declared worthy of a royal decree, he had slunk away with Fitzjames’ final pronouncement ringing in his ears.

“I’m just a little _disappointed_ , Dundy.”

Hickey lets his other hand curl around Le Vesconte’s hip. “I’m sorry, man, I swear, it was just a coincidence.” He leans forward, so that Le Vesconte is forced to to dip his head a little and let Hickey whisper in his ear. “Make it up to you if you like?”

Le Vesconte sighs, reaches up to grasp Hickey’s hand, now wandering somewhere beneath his collar. “Let’s go to the pub,” he says, wearily. “I’m sorry, I should know better. It’s good for me to be taken down a peg or two sometimes.” His smile is so honestly rueful that Hickey could feel a little bit bad about thieving his bake idea. However, _next_ week’s ice cream cake recipe, which he’s already practiced a couple of times, looks like a miracle in a cake-tin and he’s not that much of a good person. He’s already made a careful note of how far the freezer doors can be left open without swinging wide, after all.

“You’re doing all right,” Hickey tells him, voice deliberately, carefully gentle. “You’re the best baker in there by far, we all know that. I’ll buy you a star baker drink anyway, eh?”

At the pub, they crush in between Tozer and a hiccuping Hodgson. Goodsir and Silna appear to be having a mini-conference of their own somewhere on the other side of the bar and Irving has been relegated to awkwardly patting Hodgson’s back while trying to engage him in talking about anything else other than baking.

When he leaves with Le Vesconte again, Hickey catches Silna’s eye. She frowns at him and he has the desperate urge to stick his tongue out at her. He thinks better of it and settles for allowing his hand to drift lower down Le Vesconte’s back to rest against the waistband of his designer jeans. He winks broadly at Silna, who ignores him.

The sex that night is fantastic. 

The croissants the next morning are sublime. 

The ice-cream recipe netting him Star Baker the following week, well, wasn’t that just the icing on the cake.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not quite GBBO, largely because I did not research what behind the scenes GBBO looks like. It is GBBO-adjacent. The difference, if you will, between a quiche and a savoury flan.


End file.
